


Through the Mictlan

by Bright_Elen



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dogs, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9095998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bright_Elen/pseuds/Bright_Elen
Summary: Carlos and Science are on the outs. Then he finds a remarkably polite plastic bag.





	1. Chapter 1

Science is...well, nothing’s wrong with Science. It’s full of projects that seem intriguing but, once he’s immersed in them, demand nothing of Carlos but rote number-crunching or dot-connecting. Nothing since grad school challenges him anymore. The fruit fly project he’s working on is important, so he does his job, but the methods are monotonous, the conclusions either predictable or only mildly surprising.

There’s nothing wrong with Science. Its rules and principles are the same as ever. It’s Carlos that something’s wrong with.

He wishes, vaguely, that he could feel about Science like he did as a child: astonished, confused, excited.

* * *

Dobermans, Carlos knows, can be perfectly sweet when raised with kindness and discipline; his tia Briana keeps nearly a dozen of the canines in chaotic harmony with each other and the rest of the world. She explained to young Carlos that dogs have rules of behavior (in Carlos’s opinion, much more straightforward than human norms) that, once known, anyone can follow. Before adopting her first puppy, she'd read the literature, made her own observations, and developed her own alpha behavior accordingly.

In short, Tia Briana rules her pack scientifically. Small wonder she's always been Carlos's favorite aunt.

Anyway, Carlos knows that dog behavior says just as much about environmental factors as about genetic predispositions, if not more. Which means that he has an acidic dislike of his deceptively bland neighbor Joey Bianchi, whose high-fives and boy-band good looks can't hide the fact that his Doberman is a mess of nerves and aggression.

He’s checked to see if he was a rescue dog. Bianchi’s raised him from puppyhood.

Carlos also knows from bitter experience that displaying clearly toxic behavior does not, in the eyes of the Los Angeles PD, qualify as evidence of animal abuse. He keeps a perhaps too-close watch on Bianchi for things that do qualify, but so far the asshole has been just on this side of the law.

* * *

 He catches a flaw in the method that would have killed an entire generation of flies. It feels good in a distant kind of way.

* * *

On his way home, just as he turns onto his block, Carlos hears canine snarls and growls. The scientist frowns, then breaks into a jog when he hears a whining yelp.

Sure enough, in the courtyard of his building he sees Bianchi’s menace off his leash again, eyes wild, jaws clamped around the ruff of a smaller, sleek brown dog Carlos hasn't seen before. Sections of the Doberman’s fur gleam wetly with blood, but Carlos can tell he's going to win, probably killing the smaller dog in the process.

“Hey! Stop it!” Carlos yells. The Doberman’s ears twitch in the scientist's direction, and maybe pauses half a second. “Get off! Bad dog!”

The smaller dog, sensing their attacker's distraction, tries to wriggle out of the grapple. The Doberman’s instincts override his (admittedly minimal) deference to Carlos, and he redirects his attention to his victim.

A strange, exasperated rage pulses through Carlos’s chest and throat. He can't fall back in love with his work, but he can stop Bianchi’s asshole dog.

“Ladykiller! No!” he yells, and grabs the Doberman by his stupid spiked leather collar. Carlos registers only a dull pain when his hand closes around it, and he pulls with a strength he doesn't recognize.

In retrospect, he probably should have used a stick or something.

Ladykiller lets go of the smaller dog and immediately sinks his teeth into Carlos’s forearm. Crying out, Carlos pushes the dog back, but Ladykiller is fighting like a demon and Carlos fights like a man who's spent the last decade in a lab. Still yelling at the top of his lungs, Carlos risks letting go of the collar, reaches into his pocket, and closes his hand around his pepper spray.

Regretting that he has to spray the dog instead of Bianchi himself, Carlos turns his own face away and lets the Doberman have it.

A blood-curdling cry is accompanied by the teeth leaving Carlos’s skin, so his aim must have been on target. He turns back to see Ladykiller shaking his head and howling, futilely rubbing his eyes on his paws.

A single bark behind him draws his attention. The smaller dog hasn't run away and there’s blood on their neck and right foreleg. Carlos’s worry intensifies even as the dog’s movement and steady breathing give him hope.

Regardless of injury, they're looking at Ladykiller with a weirdly clear expression of grim satisfaction.

“Hang on,” Carlos tells them, unsure why he's bothering. He manages to grab Ladykiller’s collar with his good hand, drags him to Bianchi’s door, and hands off the dog after a brief shouting match of which Carlos considers himself the winner. Fresh puncture wounds are hard to argue with.

Carlos is relieved and a bit surprised to find the smaller dog waiting for him on the sidewalk. They aren't a terrier or smaller variety of Doberman as he had originally thought. In fact, if it weren't for his certainty that such a thing was impossible, Carlos would have sworn that they weren't a dog at all. It was like someone had somehow bred a bat with a hyena and then shaved the result.

“Ok, dog,” Carlos says, crouching down a couple of arm’s lengths away. “Come here, I'm not going to hurt you,” he assures in his softest tone. The dog stares at him for a moment, then limps forward. Gingerly - and then awkwardly, as the dog squirms around in his hold, licking his face and turning out to be heavier than expected - he manages to pick them up. “There's a good dog.”

Their tail wags furiously, smacking rhythmically on Carlos’s arm.

Once inside, he gets the first aid kit and puts it on the kitchen counter. The dog whines when Carlos lets go, eyes dark and mournful, and stare at him while he washes his hands. They stare while he scours the sink. They follow the motion of his hands except when they're staring at his face. He doesn’t know enough about dog behavior to know if it’s weird or not.

When the sink is clean, Carlos picks up the dog again and hopes they won't fight the shower he’s about to give them.

“In you go. I'm going to wash your wounds before I put ointment on them.”

The dog only just fits in the sink. Blunt claws scrabble at the stainless steel basin for a moment before Carlos soothes them with petting and soft noises. Their skin is dry, tough, but also warm and smooth, not unpleasant, only unfamiliar. He sluices body-temperature water over the animal's wounds, who shivers and whines at the first contact.

“I know it stings, but we have to get you clean,” he murmurs. He lathers up his hands and carefully, carefully soaps up the dog’s neck under and around the purple collar, then their leg. He gets a closer look at the wounds as he does.

“Looks like that asshole didn't hit any arteries or tendons,” he informs his patient. “I think if you can avoid infection, you'll be okay.”

The dog barks and tries to lick Carlos's face again. The scientist laughs and gently pushes the dog back into the sink. “Down, down!”

After that the animal stops shying away, even pushes uninjured limbs under the tap and Carlos’s hands. Carlos can't help grinning.

“Ok, Calvito, you can have the full shower.”

The dog whines and gives Carlos a withering look, as if they can understand the nickname and do not approve. He knows he's projecting human emotions and behaviors onto an individual of another species and should stop, but it's hard when the little dog is so expressive.

Also when the dog doesn't wait for a towel after Carlos turns off the tap. Not having fur doesn't stop the animal from shaking dry, and Carlos yelps and then sighs as he and his kitchen are showered. Calvito looks awfully smug not to have done it on purpose.

“Fine,” Carlos grumbles, wiping his face and reaching for the collar. “I have to find out where to return you to anyway.”

There's only one tag, a rounded diamond of stamped brass that isn't so much helpful as mysterious:

_If found, please return to Night Vale Community Radio, care of Intern __________. DON'T BOTHER STATION MANAGEMENT._

Whatever name was written on the blank has rubbed off almost entirely.

“Huh,” Carlos muses. He looks at the dog.

The dog looks back.

“A radio station pet, from some town I've never heard of, with no name tag.”

Now the dog lowers their head, as if apologetic.

Carlos shrugs. “I'll just Google it.”

* * *

After he’s got the dog more or less dry, slathered in antibiotic ointment, and bandaged, Carlos tries. The initial search turns up nothing about Night Vale or its radio station.

Scrubbing a hand across his face, Carlos checks his watch. The shelter’s still open. They’ll have to figure out where to take the dog, because he has to get back to work.

He finds a carabiner and an old belt, and uses these to kludge together a leash. The dog accepts this new development, and then Carlos scoops them up.

When the shelter volunteer takes the animal away from Carlos, the dog whines, barks, and tries to escape. It tugs at Carlos in a way he wasn’t expecting.

Carlos decides that he was right to bring the dog in right away.


	2. Chapter 2

The fruit flies take up his brain the next day. They’ve developed a mutation that would make complete sense in a blue whale, but absolutely none in a fly of any kind. It’s exciting and baffling and Carlos feels happier than he has in a long time.

In fact, Carlos thinks about nothing but the mutation for days. Doesn’t sleep for three. Is crushed on the fourth when he discovers that the mutation was actually just some cross-contamination from a careless lab assistant. He goes home with too much Thai food and an intention to cry himself to sleep with David Attenborough.

He hears a scratching at his apartment door just past dinner time while the takeout containers congeal. It takes a few minutes for the sound to register. 

Carlos blinks. A quiet whine accompanies the scratching. Goosebumps break out all over his arms.

Sure enough, the weird dog slips inside the apartment as soon as he opens the door wide enough. They dash around the studio, sniffing at the piles of journals, piles of clothes, and piles of take-out containers before wiggling under the futon.

Carlos closes the door. Locks it. Kneels down next to the futon to see a pair of wide eyes liquid with hurt. 

“Don’t look at me like that. There’s no phone number on your collar. Taking you to the shelter was the responsible thing to do.”

The dog looks down at the floor, but doesn’t move. Carlos knows he wouldn’t be able to pull the dog out unless he moved the futon.

“I wonder how you got out of there,” he mutters.

He gets up, sighs, and pulls out his laptop.

Instead of trying to learn more about where the dog comes from, he looks up the dog itself. A few minutes with the American Kennel Association website reveals that the dog is a Xoloitzcuintli, or Mexican Hairless dog. 

“There’s more supporting evidence for the dog hypothesis,” he tells the room. 

“And...oh.” Carlos frowns. “Jeeze. Apparently the Aztecs thought you’re both spiritually significant and delicious.” 

He hears claws on linoleum and a whine.

“No one’s going to eat you,” he promises. 

A snout pokes cautiously out. Carlos pats the futon next to him in encouragement.

The dog emerges and jumps up onto the bed, curling up against Carlos’s side. He lays a hand almost absently on the animal’s side, looking into the distance as he thinks.

Maybe he spoke too soon about the dog hypothesis. Dogs don’t understand more than basic commands. No way should he be able to freak out and then reassure the dog.

He opens a new document on his laptop and starts typing.

_ Xolo dog observations: _

_ Found in fight with Ladykiller. About 14 inches at shoulder. Weight unknown. Age unknown, but no grey hair. Male anatomy. _

_ No name on tag. _

He pauses. “What if I call you Houdini?”

The dog looks at him for a moment, then huffs a sigh.

Carlos thinks back to his mandatory literature class. "What about Virgil?" 

They yip and lick Carlos again. He laughs.

_ Reacted negatively to being called Calvito, neutral affect when called Houdini, positive reaction to 'Virgil.' _

_ Negative reaction when separated from me in the shelter. Can be presumed to have escaped, though being set free by a volunteer is possible if not likely. Arrived alone at apartment after 4 days. Examined the room when I let them in, hid under bed when safety was determined.  _

_ Stress reaction when I mentioned Aztec practices of eating Xolo dogs. Relaxed when I said the same thing wouldn’t happen to them. Emerged from hiding. _

He checks the animal over. The bandages he put on are gone, but some...surgical glue?...has been applied to the biggest puncture wounds. There’s some inflammation, but nothing extreme.

_ Was further treated for injuries at shelter. No new wounds present. _

_ Conclusions: Animal’s size, shape, vocalizations, body language and physical characteristics support hypothesis that they are Canis familiaris xoloitzcuintli. However, Virgil reacts to complex human language as though they understand it. _

Carlos stares at this for a while, then rubs his face and yawns. As always, three days without sleep is as long as he can go before it catches up to him. He brushes his teeth and strips down to t-shirt and boxers. 

Figuring a bald dog probably gets cold at night, Carlos shapes a dirty laundry pile into something bed-like and pats it. Virgil sniffs it, then looks up at Carlos. 

“Bed. For sleeping.” He’s already lying down and drifting off.

The last thing he sees is Virgil staring at him contemplatively.

* * *

 

Carlos wakes to use the bathroom.

When he flops back into bed, he thinks he feels a tongue on his face, and then something snuffling through his hair. 

 


End file.
